We'll Be Outlaws
by Shalla Bal
Summary: Rip is prepared to leave the Wave Rider after feeling he has nothing more to teach the Legends. When Sara confronts him about his decision, Rip must in turn begin admitting to himself how strong his feelings for her have become. Before they can fully deal with these matters, a new adventure drags them into incredibly dangerous territory...and brings them even closer. Time Canary!
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: Never be like you**

 ***Rip***

"So you were just going to leave without saying goodbye?" It's her. It's Sara. _Damn._

I turn around slowly, clutching the strap of my traveling bag in nervousness I desperately try to keep from showing in my face. I'm afraid to look at her, but her eyes demand nothing less than full confrontation.

I can tell she's angry because she's smiling. The cold curve touches her lips but her glare is glittering with resentment. Sara Lance is beautiful, brave, strong, caring, and extremely imposing when she's mad.

Does she have to be _that_ beautiful?

And also, what in the hell am I going to say?

I smile affectionately, forcing my sadness aside, and remark, "I've realized that there's really nothing further I can teach you. Any of you." I mean the comment to indicate in particular what a fine captain Sara's grown into. And yet…

Somehow, I immediately get the feeling that was the wrong thing to say. It's so…disgustingly simple, so painfully reductive, and worst of all, dismissive in a way I don't actually feel at all. Sara bristles and I don't blame her.

"Oh, I think there's something more you can teach me," she replies with shrapnel cutting through every word. She strides up to me until we're almost touching. Close up, I can watch her chest rising and falling so quickly, her breath coming fast and indeed quite furious. "You can teach me how I could ever be so completely wrong about someone as I've been about you."

With that, Sara turns on her heel and storms off.

I watch her go and then I turn and glance in the other direction, towards the jump ship I was going to use to depart, to find a new purpose for myself in the utter lack of such a meaningful role here. Or so I felt at the time.

What am I _really_ running away from?

I can still go if I want; no one else will try to stop me. Even if they wanted to, only Sara realized my absence and its implication.

I take a deep breath and murmur quite emphatically, " _Fuck_."

Then I square my shoulders and follow Sara.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Say it**

 **Sara**

I make it back to my office before Rip catches up with me. Do I want him here now, or am I too mad at this point? I thought we were _friends_ , I thought we meant something to each other. I didn't think that I— I mean, I didn't think that _we_ , the team — were just some whimsical, passing hobby to be tossed aside as soon as we were experienced enough to carry on without Rip.

"Sara," Rip begins breathlessly, though my back is turned to him, my lips trembling ever so slightly, my hands clenched in fists. "I'm sorry. I'm sure it must seem as if I'm abandoning you all. My behavior was childish. I should have slowed down long enough to say a proper goodbye."

 _A proper goodbye_? That's about the last thing I want to hear from him.

"Ya _think_?" My reply is fast and tart.

I relax my hands by force of will and try in vain to calm down. I'm overreacting, right? And this isn't like me. I don't get carried away by wild torrents of emotion that pull me so far downstream that I'm drowning before I realize the danger I've put myself in. I don't _do_ vulnerable, and I certainly don't put my own admittedly repressed and long-denied feelings above the needs of the people I care about. People like Rip.

If he doesn't feel at home here despite, well, _everything_ , who am I to try and convince him otherwise? If he wants to go, he should. Does it kill me to think of him not being here? That's obvious to me, if to no one else. But if it's what Rip needs, I can accept it. I'm just somehow reduced to a chaotic heap of rubble over the fact that he didn't bother to tell me before he left.

Putting all this together as best I can in the moment, I turn to face him and try to smile as if my heart isn't breaking. "Look, I'm sorry, too. It's not my place to question your decision," I manage.

"It's just that…the Legends have the right Captain now. As I've told you before, I feel superfluous." Rip shrugs his travel bag off and slips back into his trademark sexy English brooding. Existential angst never looked so good.

I sigh. "And as I told _you_ the last time we talked about this, you're not superfluous to us, Rip. We need you. You have a place on this team and it's integral, essential."

I get why it's so hard for him to recognize that. He wears the guise of all-knowing time traveler so easily that the continually rising crisis beneath the surface feels even more painful for me to observe. Rip is never at peace with himself. He can't reconcile his tragic past with a hopeful future, and feeling out of place among his own crew is just the latest example of that. Does he think he doesn't deserve a home, doesn't deserve to be happy? I've been in that place, and I know the sinking feeling of meaninglessness that erodes your heart and soul until you harden and become convinced you just don't need anyone. I don't want that for Rip, but I've been aware of these qualities in him from the first day we met. Maybe we've always seen a bit of ourselves in each other.

"You should have more confidence in yourself, Sara. I don't need to be here looking over your shoulder for you to make the right decisions," Rip reasons, taking a tentative step towards me.

"And I don't need you redirecting the subject to me when what we're really talking about is you," I answer smoothly. I'm still a little shaky from my overwhelming grief and anger at realizing he was going to be gone again without another thought for me, but I keep myself composed.

"Are we?" Rip asks provocatively. What's he getting at? I'm half-sitting on my desk with my hands pressed lightly to its surface. He steps closer, looking down at me intently. An urge to grab him by his coat collar and kiss him hits me so profoundly that I'm at a momentary loss for words. Rip's voice gets quieter and treacherously intimate. "Why do you want me to stay, if not to advise you, Sara? Out of friendship, camaraderie, or…"

He's got nerve, trying to get me to make some grand revelations about how I feel after what he just pulled.

When I stand up, our bodies brush together tantalizingly and a shock of desire goes down my spine. "Or what, Rip?" I dare to ask, watching his eyes as they go to my lips.

A look of tender conflict crosses his face as he cups my face in his hand, his fingers tracing my skin with a torturously feather-light touch. "Sara," Rip whispers.

Naturally, right then a knock sounds on the door and a confused Jax looks at us apologetically. "Sorry, guys, but we need you on the bridge."

As I step away from Rip with great effort, he gives me a look that momentarily roots me to the ground in a motionless state of utterly shameless lust.

"What's up?" I ask Jax casually, like this is a totally normal situation.

"There's a new aberration, and it's a really weird one," Jax explains.

As Rip and I step onto the bridge, we look up at the series of images projected by Gideon to clue us in on the latest aberration. "October, 1845, Yorkshire, England," I note thoughtfully.

"Whoever caused this aberration is either the world's biggest fan of Cathy and Heathcliff, or you know, the opposite," Nate adds, nodding at the picture of a woman that hovers in the air. Her blue-gray eyes stare bluntly outward, her full lips pursed anxiously, while an intense aura seems to fill her whole image with power and fascination.

"Emily Bronte," Amaya remarks, "author of _Wuthering Heights._ She's disappeared completely, right before she was supposed to start writing her great masterpiece."

"Probably saving a lot of people the trouble of reading that boring doorstop of a book," Mick chuckles, maintaining his usual stance of indifference and mockery.

"Hey, it's not so bad," Ray objects. "A little dark, but I like to think the message is that true love never dies." We all shoot him questioning looks, to which he replies, "Hey, I read more than just science journals."

"Well, that _boring doorstop_ is still known as one of the essential books of the gothic genre even in my time, Mr. Rory," Rip retorts, "So one can only imagine the impact to be made by Emily Bronte's absence from the timeline."

"It's kind of random, yet oddly specific, right?" I observe, quickly scanning through the facts on Emily's life. "I mean, on the one hand, she's a major historical figure. On the other, aside from interfering with the evolution of literature and possibly further slowing down the already infuriatingly gradual progress of feminism, what would really change without her? It's hard to see the strategic advantage, and usually the culprits of aberrations are all about strategy and personal gain."

"There's only one way to find out," Nate points out and I nod.

"Let's go check it out, talk to Emily's family, friends, neighbors. See what they know," I determine.

"If I may, Ms. Lance, Jefferson and I are investigating an issue that's arisen with the Wave Rider's engines," Stein explains. "Since this mission doesn't necessitate a large landing party, perhaps we can maintain our focus on that."

"Agreed," I say. "Ray, help them out with the repairs. Amaya, Nate, Mick, you're with me."

"What about Englishman?" Mick quips, "We could use his fancypants accent down there, right?"

"That's up to Rip," I announce lightly, heading to the fabrication room.

"I wouldn't miss it," Rip says significantly, trailing close behind me.

The others take their Victorian garb and quickly head off to change. I take my dress and accessories when they're ready, almost bumping into Rip as I turn to go.

"First you don't care if you ever see me again and now I can't get rid of you," I say drily.

"First you can't stand to watch me go and now you want me out of the way," Rip replies all too readily.

"I never said I couldn't stand to watch you go," I clarify, my cheeks feeling hot. "I just thought you were being rude and insensitive to the team."

"I was afraid to stay, but not because I thought the team didn't need me," Rip explains. He chuckles. "The others need all the help they can get, let's face it."

I laugh and nod. He continues, "If they've got you, though, they'll be fine. And for whatever reason, I just assumed that _you_ didn't need me. Not the way I…" Rip hesitates but follows through. "Not the way I need you, Sara."

I'm blown away and struck silent, trying frantically to decide whether to ask him in exactly what way he needs me or just drop these clothes on the floor and throw him against that wall so I can show him how much I need _him_.

"Hey, are you guys coming or what?" Nate sticks his head in the door.

"Yup!" I answer, shooting him the look of death as Rip walks to the fabrication machine to retrieve his own clothes for the mission.

"I'll see you down there," I murmur to Rip as we go our separate ways to change. We smile at each other in anticipation of the next time we get a chance to talk about this…to talk about _us_.

I'm not used to thinking of love as something I'd ever be good at, but for some reason this feels different. It feels like hope.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: I'm yours**

*Rip*

Cravats are so bloody uncomfortable. I almost forgot. I tug at my collar and shoot Rory a dirty look for not even having bothered with his. We step from the cloaked Wave Rider out onto the foggy moors, and the cool early morning air seems to be punctuated with minuscule raindrops. Each one feels like a tiny, oddly refreshing kiss, and it's with this realization that I let my eyes land on Sara as she comes forward. She's appraising the environs and then looking straight ahead toward the Bronte's house. Her creme colored dress clings to her upper body and blooms out in a full skirt, while her matching bonnet is tied with a pale blue ribbon. Nothing about the outfit is at all in line with Sara's usual taste in clothing; yet just as with every other era of fashion I've seen her in, it suits her to a tee and she looks absolutely stunning.

"What are you staring at?" Rory asks me gruffly, and I realize that my gaze has been locked on Sara to the exclusion of all else for longer than a minute as she's chatted with Nate and Amaya about our typically sketchy cover story before we encounter the Brontes.

"Hmm? Nothing," I reply quickly, but there's a somewhat mocking half-smile and twinkle in Rory's eye telling me he's caught on to the reason for my distraction.

"Let's go," Sara says, and we head for the house, walking through carpet-soft yellow and green grass that spreads out as far as the eye can see over otherwise rocky terrain, dotted with leafless black trees whose skinny fingers reach up rather forlornly, seeming to strain for the somber grey sky.

The door is opened by an exhausted-looking female servant who simply steps back to admit us into the simple but pleasant home where everything seems to have emerged from a more fruitful time and has since been worn out. "Master Branwell is in the library," the maid announces blankly.

"I thought _this_ was the library," Amaya notes with surprise as we pass through a room where every surface is covered with books, papers, quills and ink.

"In this house," the maid answers in dry amusement, " _Every_ room is the library. But here's the one that officially goes by that name." She pushes open the door to reveal a red-haired man in his late twenties who is hurriedly scrawling out a letter at his desk. Branwell looks up at us and scowls as if in automatic hatred.

"Who in blazes are you?" He demands harshly, standing up to confront us aggressively.

Rory takes one look at the half-empty bottle of whiskey balancing precariously on the edge of the desk and back at Branwell's take-no-prisoners expression. "I like this guy," Rory observes with a grin.

"Oh, I forgot to ask who they were," the maid recalls absently. "I'm sure you'll be able to learn, Master. And for goodness sake, put the whiskey away. It's not even eleven o'clock!" She clucks her tongue in disapproval and leaves us to question her grumpy employer.

"Well!" Branwell exclaims irritably. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't grab you each in turn by your ears and turn you into the street!"

"Because we're here to help find your sister, Emily," Sara explains, unbothered by his attitude.

"In that case," says a female who steps into the room, removing a pair of spectacles from her nose and dropping them into her pocket with a serious, determined expression, "I think we had better hear them out, Branwell."

"You must be Charlotte," Nate observes, taking in the sight of the young brunette woman, whose pale, pretty face is filled with concern and anxiety for Emily.

"Indeed," Charlotte confirms. "And who are all of you?" She is welcoming of any assistance in her family crisis, yet not lacking in suspicion at our random arrival.

"We are detectives," I announce, but Charlotte's forehead crinkles.

"Not to state the exceedingly obvious, but you two are women," she points out in perplexity.

"Though society frowns on women in what are considered men's careers, we decided to ignore that rule," Amaya embellishes with a sly look at Charlotte, who of course did the same thing in her own life. She and her two sisters had to publish their works under male pseudonyms, but publish them they did, to great legend.

"Preposterous!" Branwell huffs. "Female detectives! Who ever heard of such nonsense? It's offensive."

"Admirable, but highly irregular," Charlotte observes archly, ignoring her brother as if out of habit in enduring his temper and backward-thinking ways. She is not fully buying into our tale, as I can tell. Still, we offer help when it is desperately needed. "Anne!" she calls out. Moments later, a thin girl who bears a strong resemblance to her siblings appears, then does the mandatory double-take at the sight of our team.

"These people claim to be detectives offering to help in our search for dear Emily," Charlotte tells Anne briskly. "Their story is absolutely ludicrous, but most of them are American, which probably accounts for it."

Anne turns to us with supplication lighting up her sweet, gentle face. "Please help us to find our sister, whoever you are. She vanished completely, and there is no one less likely to abscond than she. Emily loves our home, adores the moors, and desires nothing more than to remain here with us."

"Has she…met anyone new lately?" Sara inquires. Branwell scoffs.

"Emily doesn't meet people," He tells us brusquely, swigging from his glass. "She runs in the other direction when she sees _people_."

"So she's not a people person. What _does_ she like?" Rory asks, even his amusement fading into impatience at Branwell's unhelpful antics.

"Emily is almost constantly out on the moors," Charlotte explains. Her face takes on a dreamy, affectionate expression as she thinks of her sister. "And as we do not always accompany her, and she is often out wandering, reading and writing for hours on end, it is possible that she may have encountered someone there yesterday."

"Some criminal may have kidnapped her!" Anne guesses, terrified.

"It does seem that way," I put in, as soothingly as I can, "But don't worry, Anne, we're here to ensure that your sister is returned to her rightful place as soon as possible."

Sara nods and comes to a decision about our next move. "Rip, come with me; we're going to check out the moors and see if there's any evidence of what happened to Emily." I nod, my heart leaping like a thirteen year old schoolboy, and I chastise myself for being so easily excited at the thought of more time alone with Sara.

"Amaya, Nate, and Mick," Sara continues, "you go into the village and talk to the people there. Find out if they've seen anything unusual going on lately. It's pretty unlikely that anyone capable of removing someone from their timeline could come and go seamlessly from Victorian times."

"I'm coming with you," Charlotte said as the others prepared to leave. Nate nods and Amaya pats her shoulder comfortingly as Mick rolls his eyes.

"A lot of help you'll be, _Jane Eyre_ ," Rory grumbles as Amaya smirks.

"I thought you hated those types of books, so how do you know which one Charlotte wrote?" she asks.

"Whatever," Rory replies dismissively as Amaya laughs.

"I will stay here in case Emily returns," Anne announces, and Branwell swaggers forward on wobbly legs.

"Allow me to act as your guide. There's a _pub_ in particular that I think we should visit. Perhaps the patrons saw something suspicious," Branwell suggests, but Charlotte shakes her head.

"Anne, give Branwell the guided tour to his _bed_ so that he may recover from this morning's debauchery," Charlotte suggests, and everyone sets off on their ways.

"I like this place," Sara says reflectively after she and I have walked for a bit in companionable silence. "It's…wild, free, untamable, and yet…"

"Embracing," I put in with a smile, and she nods.

"Yeah," Sara agrees. She pulls off her bonnet and lets it lightly dangle by its ribbon in her fingers. I tuck a tendril of blonde hair behind her ear with a caress, and she shivers, looking up at me with that many-fathoms-deep crystal blue stare of hers.

"You look lovely," I murmur and she shrugs with a chuckle. I swear I see an uncharacteristic pink flush come into her cheeks and I'm not sure how much longer I can hold myself back from kissing her…or why I've been waiting so long in the first place.

"This corset is killing me," she complains, pressing her hands to her waist with a wince.

"At least you don't have to wear this damned collar and cravat," I reply, pointing to my neck, but she shakes her head.

"Corsets win. Every time," Sara corrects me. "Anyway, you don't look half bad yourself, Mr. Hunter." She smooths out the lapel of my brown jacket rather coyly.

I feel compelled by our increasingly bold flirtation to finally be fully honest, so I plunge in: "Sara, I was going to leave the Wave Rider because I was afraid to admit how I feel about you. Afraid you didn't feel the same, afraid that I was unworthy of finding love again after everything…I was a damn fool, and I'm grateful to you beyond words that you stopped me."

Her eyes have gone large with surprise, and she swallows hard, overcome with emotion. "Love?" She repeats, running a hand through my hair and letting her fingers come to rest on my cheek. I nod, never having felt quite so exposed, but she doesn't leave me alone in the moment. Instead, Sara slides her arms around my neck, goes slightly up on her tiptoes and presses her mouth against mine. The brief pressure of her lips, the taste tantalizing and insatiably making me want more, feels like a promise, an unquestionable reciprocation of the yearning that has haunted me for so long.

When our lips part, I press my forehead gently to hers and whisper, "'Whatever souls are made of, yours and mine are the same.'"

"Emily Bronte?" she guesses, clinging to me as my arms tighten around her waist. The close press of our bodies is almost more than I can take without behaving in a way most unsuitable to a public place, especially when we're in the middle of a mission.

"Yes," I answer her softly, and she smiles, her eyes shining with tears.

"I always felt so damaged," Sara confesses, "Like finding love was impossible for me, so why bother? Then I met you, and I couldn't figure out why I'd feel this way about you if I wasn't meant to. Once I used the spear to save us without letting its power corrupt me…I think I finally realized something that had been out of reach before. I realized that I _deserve_ to be happy. I deserve to be _loved_. The way I love you. I have wanted to kiss you for so long," she admits, laughing through her tears. My own gaze mists over and I nod.

"Right back at you, Captain," I reply, and I'm about to repeat the action when something catches my eye over Sara's shoulder. "What's that?" I question, and Sara's eyes dart to the same spot on the grass behind us.

We approach and examine the area, discovering clear indentations that indicate a ship must have landed here, most likely cloaked, since there are no Victorians running around screaming about visitors from the sky. Just then, Ray contacts us from the Wave Rider with news.

"Guys, there's been two more aberrations since you've been in 1845," Ray informs us. "Two more famous artists have been taken from other points in history. Like Emily, they completely vanished with no warning, soon before they were going to compose their masterpieces."

 _Two more aberrations_? And at this rate, how many to follow? We can't be everywhere at once, so there's no way for the Legends to stay on top of all these disappearances. The damage to history, however, will be catastrophic if the pattern isn't stopped. Then it hits me.

"Wait a minute," I breathe in astonished realization. "This sounds familiar. Oh, bollocks."

"What?" Sara asks, watching as the pieces fall into place in my mind.

"I think I know who is behind these kidnappings," I say.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: They would watch as the silence falls**

 ***Sara***

"Come and get us, Dr. Palmer," Rip mutters darkly. Under his breath, he adds, "Bloody Reg."

After we make a speedy entrance back onto the cloaked Wave Rider, we gather Ray, Jax and Martin for the latest update, patching Nate, Amaya and Mick in on the coms.

"What's this about, Englishman?" Mick barks impatiently. "There's a leg of lamb at the pub that's got my name all over it."

"Your meal is going to have to wait, Mr. Rory," Rip informs him crisply. "Everyone, I've got a pretty good idea who took Emily, and they're not done yet." He whips off his cravat, unbuttons his collar, casts aside his Victorian jacket and shrugs back into his usual duster coat almost in one fluid motion that distracts me only as much as anything that damn sexy should.

"Ray found out that John Keats and believe it or not, _Amy Winehouse_ , have also gone missing from their timelines," Jax puts in. "Guess whoever this kidnapper is doesn't just like the fussy old-timey artists."

"Thanks for the label," Charlotte Bronte's clipped tones come over the communicator. Jax blushes.

"Sorry," he murmurs and I can't help an amused smirk.

"He does seem to like them British, though," Ray observes thoughtfully.

"If I'm right, the culprit is a man named Sir Reginald De Boer," Rip explains. "He's a former Time Master who went rogue."

"I'd have thought you two would get along, then," Martin suggests somewhat humorously.

Rip grimaces. "Actually, we were friends once. But he soon proved himself a flighty, uncontrollable man with little to no regard for the rules set forth by our organization. He began bending the rules and soon after, breaking them left and right, until he was dismissed. The salient point here is that Reg was absolutely obsessed with famous artists who died before their full potential could ever be known."

"Excuse me, Captain Hunter," Gideon interrupts, "But I thought you would all want to know that two more historical figures have gone missing. Jesse James and Heath Ledger have also vanished from the time period right before their most famous accomplishments were to occur."

"So," Ray notes, "This DeBoer character is expanding his repertoire. They don't have to be British or artists."

"Seems like he's just grabbing people that were insanely good at whatever it was they did," Jax says.

"Looks that way," I confirm, beginning to panic at the sheer number of aberrations occurring in such quick succession. How can we begin to replace all those dominoes before the changes to history start to become crazy obvious? Consequences are surely mounting already. "Gideon, is there any way to track DeBoer's ship using the residual signature it left behind?" I'm grasping at straws by now.

"Yes, Captain Lance, there is," Gideon replies cheerfully. "I should have the vessel's current location for you shortly."

I let out a sigh of relief. Then I turn back to Rip and ask, "Why is DeBoer taking the artists at that specific point in their lives?"

"And what is he doing with them once he has them?" Ray adds fearfully.

"Reg considers himself a collector of historical memorabilia, the _extremely_ high end kind," Rip explains, clearly insulted by everything his former friend now represents. "First it was objects, but he always used to joke and brag about raising his game to collect famous _people_ , too. Yet his obsessions have nothing to do with personal gain. He always talked about being able to watch them work, talk with them whenever he wanted, and see them interact with one another, geniuses who otherwise never would have met. He passed off the idea as a joke at the time, but after how out of control he became, I'm not all that surprised that he's really trying it."

"And he's willing to throw the whole timeline under the bus to achieve these petty enjoyments for himself?" Martin says, his eyes widening in disbelief. "He must be insane."

"Yes," Rip confirms, "Make no mistake that DeBoer is quite insane. Using wit and charm, he joined the Time Masters with ulterior motives, then used those qualities to ingratiate himself to us until he learned all the secrets he needed to carry out his own agenda. Well, it's time he learned a new secret."

"What's that?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"The Legends don't stand for that sort of thing. And we're coming for him." Rip's coat makes a grand flourish as he takes that moment to stalk off, and I can't help a grin despite all the trouble we're facing.

First of all, I love the badass Rip who makes bold, heroic statements and then goes storming off.

And even better, it's so fucking obvious that he's back, _really_ back.

He steps into my office a little while later while we're en route to DeBoer's ship.

"Nice speech earlier," I say by way of greeting, and he smiles self-consciously. "You don't seem to be half-assing this whole Legends thing anymore," I wink.

"I meant it, you know," Rip replies, taking my hand. I let my fingers interlace with his, loving the warmth and comfort, and certainly not immune to the tingling sensation that overtakes me with the soothing, yet deliciously teasing contact. "I'm here to stay. With you."

"With all of us," I remind him. "We all love you, Rip. You're part of us. You made us what we are. I bet even Rory kind of doesn't hate you a few days out of the week."

Rip laughs and answers, "You were all poised to become Legends long before I entered the picture. And you've all inspired me as much as I've guided you, or landed you in hot water nine times out of ten, if we're honest." When I smile in acknowledgement of his realistic statement, Rip leans in closer and adds, "Speaking of honesty, as much as I'm glad to feel like I'm not freakishly out of place around here anymore, there's a more specific reason why this ship feels like home."

"Oh, really?" I prompt, going weak in the knees despite my coy delivery.

"You're my home, Sara," Rip tells me, making my heart feel as if it's exploding in my chest, shockwaves reverberating through me. "If you'll have me."

"I think that can be arranged," I murmur, leaning in to kiss him as again we both hold back from giving full vent to our desires. Damn, if we weren't in the middle of solving a major problem endangering all of time, I'd have him on top of my desk so fast his head would spin. Parting his lips with a gentle slide of my tongue, I moan softly as he kisses me much more deeply, his fingers in my hair, my hands traveling beneath the folds of his coat to pull him closer, those formerly ridiculous-sounding fireworks sounding all around me and the world going fuzzy. I can feel the hot dampness in my core working itself up to a fever pitch, demanding to have all of him immediately, and I can't help sighing, "God!" in a mixture of ecstasy and frustration.

"Sara," Rip murmurs when the sheer fact of reality forces us to part slightly, "Make no mistake, when all of this—" I know he's referring to the mission at hand —"Is over…"

I can't help kissing him just once more, savoring the irresistible sensation and fumbling for my common sense and responsibility. "I know," I reply with a grin. "But do _you_ know?" I wonder if he has the slightest idea of all the fantasies and deliciously wicked plans that go through my mind as I gaze at him in all of his insanely gorgeous glory.

Then a certain deliberate glint in his eyes locked on me make me feel again the sensual tug inside my body with a distinct certainty that a) he definitely knows, and b) he has plans of his own.

I clear my throat and lean back in my chair, crossing my legs…no, that was a mistake. I stand up and try walking back and forth, though even a cold shower probably wouldn't be enough to make me shake this feeling.

" _Well_ , then," Rip transitions, his eyes still sparkling in a naughty way that makes his notice of my aroused state obvious. He's going to get it the first moment it's possible. "Did the others in 1845 glean anything useful from their investigation?"

"Yes," I explain, grateful and regretful for the change of subject. "And no. No one saw anything even remotely suspicious, and Emily didn't tell anyone a thing that implies she was about to be taken or leave of her own volition. But then again, Emily wasn't exactly an open book to anyone other than her sisters. Plus, with a name like _Sir Reginald DeBoer_ , is anyone in Victorian England really going to bat an eye at him even if he did go walking around in the open?"

"Definitely not," Rip confirms. "If you're picturing the ultimate dandy, you're right on target. He's also a master of disguise, though, and a chameleon who can slip in and out of any time period with ease. This was the quality that earned him the most praise during his training with the Time Masters."

"I'm sure," I remark in annoyance at DeBoer's insolent disregard for anything but his own selfish and bizarre predilections. "Well, I hope he had fun, because we're about to put an end to his little party."

We arrive at DeBoer's vessel soon after, and before we can even send out any communication, his voice is echoing all around us. "Why, it's the eloquently-named, exquisitely prideful _Captain Rip Hunter_!" A male British voice dripping with enough ego to make us all immediately roll our eyes comes chirping out. "How delightful! You simply _must_ come aboard! We'll have a little 'what've we missed' chat, shall we, Rip old chum? And you can meet all my new friends. What do you say?"

"Hello, Reg," Rip replies drily, "I'd be happy to do just that. Mind if I bring a few of my own friends along?"

"Not in the slightest," DeBoer declares excitedly, "Please do!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: You're like catching open air**

 ***Rip***

When we step into the dark, shadowy environs of Reg's ship, we squint around in momentary confusion. "Is this _stone_?" Sara asks, perplexed as she puts a hand to a nearby wall.

"Well, _that's_ a torch," Rory notes drily, nodding at a shadowy object hanging on the wall. "And I can do something with that." He lightly touches his heat gun to the torch, then lights the next few, until the peculiar corridor in front of us is illuminated. It's indeed a stone wall, and the floor beneath our feet has been overlain with cobblestones as well.

"Mr. Rory, I'm glad we retrieved you from 1845," I admit. "There are times when you truly do come in handy."

"Wish I could say the same, Englishman," Rory gripes as I roll my eyes.

"It's as if DeBoer's recreated some past era within his ship," Amaya observes. "It feels like a Dickens novel in here."

"Whatever else Reg may be guilty of," I explain, "Never think for a moment that his _aesthetic_ isn't a top priority."

"Ah, too true, too true!" A merry voice pipes up as a man steps out of the shadows up ahead and into the light.

It's Reg alright, his bright green eyes blazing with self-satisfaction; his flawlessly handsome face barely able to contain the glee of all the trouble he's causing, all the chaos he plans to inflict to achieve his own little enjoyments. His jet black hair shines in the light of the flaming torches as the others take in his impeccable hunter green suit and his utter dismissal of the mere notion that anyone could be less than _overjoyed_ at everything currently occurring.

"Rip, it's really you!" Reg cries, flashing his blindingly white teeth and pulling me into a hug, clapping me heartily on the back. "What a _fantastic_ reunion, right at the apex of my glory. How fortuitous that you can witness all the fun I've brought about in its full flux."

"And as for you, my dear," he adds, grabbing Sara's hand and kissing it before either of us can punch him, "I am, I assure you, _very_ charmed." After a slight pause, his eyes flit back and forth between Sara and myself before he adds, "Oh, dear, yes, I see how it is. _You_ , Rip, are utterly charmed by this enchanting creature, and who could ever blame you? That gorgeous blonde hair, those sea-drowned blue eyes, those pouty pink lips? And of course, the fact that she could kill all of us in about thirty seconds if given the slightest reason?" He chuckles happily, rubbing his hands together. "Irresistible!"

"You know who we are?" Sara demands, yanking her hand back in irritation.

"Why yes, love, I most certainly do," Reg elaborates, "You, the unstoppable League of Assassins graduate turned hero — though I wouldn't look at you the wrong way out of either eye! And you, sirs!" He strides confidently up to Jefferson and Martin before stating, " _Firestorm_! How exceptionally invigorating to be in your company! You know, you two would make for an outstanding quirky-opposites, best-friends sitcom. You should really market that concept. "

"Uh, thanks?" Jefferson deadpans, exchanging perplexed glances with Stein.

"Oh, and if it isn't Vixen and Heatwave, bless the souls of my entire family!" Reg states, as if he's floating on cloud nine and life couldn't possibly be sweeter. "Or as I like to call you, _'VixenWave'_!" Mick and Amaya look at him, then at each other, in wide-eyed confusion that soon turns to consternation. "Oh!," Reg fumbles happily, "Do you prefer ' _Mixen'_? You two are _so_ meant to be, let's just face it! Ah, yes, Legends. Yes."

He stalks back and forth like the predator he is, the ultimate disarming wolf in sheep's clothing. Reg takes his happiness from the mere existence of those he deems interesting.

"I know. All about you! Yes! It's been my sublime delight not only to research you, but also to put myself, psychologically speaking, in all of your adorable little timeline-saving shoes and think, what _drives_ these people? What makes their chickens cook? And I've realizes that the answer, nine times out of ten, is just this _: what is right_! How very admirable! Tiresome as all hell, but so admirable."

"Yes, Reg, that rather conveniently brings us to the main reason for our visit," I say sternly. His chuckle is darker now.

"Let's deal with that after you've had a little tour of my vessel," Reg proposes. "It's not that I think you'll change your minds about stopping me from any further additions to my collection—"

" _Additions_?" Sara blurts angrily. "More like, you are going to return every single one of your kidnapped victims to their place in their original lifespans so that the timeline doesn't become any further disrupted than it already has."

"I don't like her tone," Reg confides in me under his breath. "She didn't bring those _sticks_ of hers, did she?"

"She always brings them," I assure him proudly. "And you _should_ be worried. Why don't you take us to where you're keeping the prisoners?"

"This guy's a few cans short of a six-pack," Mick mumbles to us as we follow our host, who is monologuing on and on about his decor. Each room and hallway represents, to the last detail, a specific period in time and is decked out with every texture and antique necessary to evoke the mood. A thick scent of fussy incense pervades the air in each room; first jasmine, then lemongrass and on and on, the effect not soothing or pleasant, but distracting and almost suffocating.

"I agree with Mr. Rory's assessment," Stein puts in, "But he also hasn't threatened us physically in any way, which considering our very reason for being here, is somewhat odd."

"It makes me worry that he's going to hatch some attack on us unexpectedly," Jax replies, shuddering. "This place gives me the creeps, man."

"Agreed," Sara and I say in unison, then we catch each others' eyes and smile.

It's funny how the urge to kiss her keeps popping up in my brain at the most ridiculously inappropriate moments. Not a new instinct, certainly, but no longer a forbidden desire…the realization brings an entirely tangential-to-the-mission jolt of happiness to me that I disguise by switching back to an all-business expression, clearing my throat as Sara's eyes shimmer beguilingly. I swear, that woman can see right through me.

"My guests have the full range of the Paradise, and can come and go as they please while working on their various masterpieces," Reg brags. "We're sure to come across some of them at any moment."

"The Paradise?" Amaya repeats. "It seems more like an especially well-decorated series of _cells_ to me."

"Rather than inspiring creativity, I expect it would give most residents the heebie-jeebies," Stein observes, right before he almost walks smack into a tall, startlingly handsome young man who has been striding slowly towards us, reciting something from memory in a deep voice with an Australian accent.

"Oh, excuse me," Heath Ledger remarks, startling at the sight of our group. "Even though I've been space-napped, which is very weird, by the way, I don't want to forget my lines. I'm assuming that at some point, a chance to escape is bound to come along."

" _Escape_?" Reg clucks his tongue and shakes his head, putting a hand on Heath's shoulder. "Heath, Heath, Heath, we've discussed this. Why would you want to leave now, when you are in the presence of such greatness, with every luxury you could desire?"

"Except freedom," Sara points out.

Heath nods. "What she said," he agrees.

"Ah," another man says, coming into the room, which happens to be set up to look like an elegant art museum displaying fascinating works from the Pre-Raphaelite era. He's in his twenties, pale, skinny, and sickly-looking, with wide, intense eyes. "I myself once wrote, 'Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul?' And yet, having experienced the misery of entrapment in this wretched establishment, I'm more reminded of another of my lines, 'Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.' The _experience_ of being aboard this supposed Paradise is an absolute abomination."

"Ladies and Gentlemen, and Mick Rory, I give you John Keats," Reg says with great pleasure, totally ignoring the obvious fact that two of his "guests" have already expressed desperation to leave this place.

"There you lot are," A woman with jet black hair and a great deal of eye make-up drawls in a British accent, striding into the room with a glum-looking Emily Bronte close behind her. Amy Winehouse, of course. "And who are you all?"

"Have you come to rescue us from this awful place?" Emily asks. "I miss my moors and my sisters. And this horrific specimen of a man has introduced us all to cruelties and strangeness we knew not of!"

"Speak for yourself," Jesse James remarks in a slow, contented voice as he joins us, tipping his hat with a gentlemanly gesture that seems sarcastic. "This place has some appeal for me. No responsibilities, lap of luxury, plenty of fancy, expensive things to take and eventually leave with at the least-expected moment…"

"Well, there's really nothing like stealing, am I right?" Rory says, unusually excited for him. He's clearly having a "fanboy" moment.

"Wait just a minute, Ms. Bronte," Reg argues, "I know that it must have been strange to discover that spaceships and time travel exist, and my invitation to each of you to join this fabulous crusade of artistry may have been abrupt, but other than that, you have only ever been treated with the utmost kindness."

"Invitation?" Amy repeats incredulously, "What bloody invitation?"

"I believe mine was mislaid in the post," Keats says with a cough. "I was never sarcastic before I came here, incidentally. Quite an odd development, yet I challenge anyone to associate with my fellow residents here without acquiring the aptitude."

"Terrific," Stein quips irritably. "You've made John Keats _sarcastic._ All of literary history is pretty unlikely to thank you for that!"

"Can I just say, Ms. Winehouse," Jax clearly can't help saying, "I am a big fan! Your first album—"

"Oh, thank you so much," Amy coos, but I shake my head.

"We don't have time for this," I warn, "And we shouldn't associate with any of these people any more than is absolutely necessary. We all know where they must return, each of them, and what fate awaits."

"That's kind of ominous," Heath states confusedly.

"I was taken from my Fanny," Keats says in a powerful rush of emotion that seems like it should be enough to cripple him in his clearly weak state of health. "And to my Fanny, I must return. Her beauty is all the truth in the world to me. This place is nothing but artifice."

"Come _on_ , mate," Amy warns as if giving very helpful advice, "Love is a losing game."

"I must agree with you with regard to that," Emily says, "As indeed we have agreed on most topics, Miss Winehouse."

"Don't you just love it?" Reg exclaims. "Can't you feel the air in the ship just sizzling with electricity, with the force of charisma I've collected here? This is the stuff of Legends, so how can you lovelies not identify?" He looks around at our team as if we must be crazy not to embrace his complete craziness.

"Why don't you all join me on my next voyage?" He has the audacity to suggest. "I'm going to the nineteen-nineties to collect The Notorious B.I.G. and Tupac Shakur!"

" _What_?" Sara, Heath, Jax and Amy demand angrily as most of the others shrug indifferently.

"Is nothing sacred?" Jax adds, scandalized.

" _Genius_ is sacred, Mr. Jackson, and that is the _point,_ " Reg explains with pride. "After all, shouldn't true artistic perfection be preserved and protected at all costs?"

"Please, stop this pointless prattle," Amaya pleads, batting Rory's hand away from Jesse's clearly unloaded gun, which our own resident thief has been enthusiastically admiring. "We came to save these people from you, and that's what is about to happen."

"Oh, actually, I think not," Reg contradicts her, sitting down with a casual flip of his suit jacket. "You see, I do indeed have an ace up my sleeve, as some would have it. Something that ensures my continued success and your…well, the end of your Legendary adventuring, my dear friends, sorry to say. Are you all certain you don't want to join me?"

" _Well._." Rory begins, but we all glare at him until he's silenced.

"No, we don't want to _join_ you," Sara says icily.

"Then you leave me no choice," Reg says slightly sadly. He pulls out a communicator and it chirps at him as he says, "Yes, I have the Legends here, including those in whom you've expressed the most interest. You can do as you see fit."

"And you'll be coming with us as well, Sir Reginald," An aggressive, authoritative female voice demands, "Your entire vessel is officially now in our custody."

"Oh, people always make the mistake of assuming my eccentricities suggest I'm also _stupid_ ," Reg confides in us with a wink. "Darling, I'd actually thought of that," he says into the communicator, just as I find myself, along with the rest of the Legends, abruptly transported from his ship onto the new one that's just joined us.

My teammates and I are looking around in enraged astonishment at a cruelly utilitarian-looking ship's interior, lit all around by neon green light as a tall, imposing woman bears down on us immediately.

After taking a moment to glare at us, the woman growls into her communicator, "We have already locked a tractor beam on your vessel, DeBoer. There's no escape for you."

"You'll find this frightfully droll, but I'm actually going to be off now, dearie. T.T.Y.N.! Oh, and Rip, sorry it had to be this way. We probably won't meet again, more's the pity. Bye all," Reg calls out.

We stare up at an enormous viewscreen as what's going on outside is displayed: the Paradise, breaking off from the tractor beam and streaking off in a sudden time jump so fast that it staggers belief.

"How is that possible?" I breathe in shock.

Sara's already onto our next problem. "Who are you?" She asks our new, distinctly unwelcoming hostess with a confident authority of her own. "And what is this ship's purpose?"

"You're aboard the Chronos," the woman states smoothly, a glint of arrogant grimness making her expression particularly unpleasant. "And I am Captain Ruth Algernon, the leader of a new regime for the Time Masters." When she sees my double take at her introduction, Algernon's lips twist in a smile that more closely resembles a grimace.

"Yes, Captain Hunter," Algernon remarks, "After all this time, you're finally back home."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Time comes to rest when you are by my side**

 ***Sara***

I step in front of Rip protectively. This woman has _got_ to be kidding. After everything we did to stop the Time Masters from screwing with time in service of their fake-ass "true timeline" — A.K.A. whatever agenda they saw fit for their own maniacal purposes! After we destroyed their damn Oculus, meaning they should be powerless! So what's their game?

"We _defeated_ the Time Masters," I remind Algernon (surely she got the memo). "You people should still be cowering in embarrassment in some tiny hidden corner of the universe."

"My thoughts exactly," Mick grouses, clearly infuriated at the mere idea that the "Time Pigs," as he calls them, are back. It's a white-hot fury I feel reverberating in the air, each of us Legends bristling with shocked indignation.

"From the ashes of the mistakes made by our forebears, a new command structure and mission has arisen," Algernon explains, clearly having prepared her villain's monologue ahead of time. "Rather than allowing ourselves to be corrupted by petty temptations, political maneuvers and divisions within our ranks, we've become _pure_ once again, seeking only to maintain the integrity of the true timeline."

"As for the Oculus," she continues, "since I'm sure that was your next question, we have a new device that lets us glimpse the proper flow of time. It's called the Chrysalis, the husk within which time's butterfly wings may flutter unhindered by those seeking to take advantage of it."

"Well if your goal is to prevent aberrations, then you're on the same mission that we are," Amaya points out, her brow furrowing at the accusatory glare Algernon just gave the Legends.

"I think not," Algernon bites out, "You are nothing but a pathetic pack of outlaws, misinterpreting events left and right, meddling in affairs far above your nonexistent paygrade — former criminals, the majority of you! Renegades, thieves, assassins, and rank amateurs to boot!"

"The accusations you lob at us are rather an apt way to describe most of the upper ranking Time Masters I've encountered," Rip retorts, his eyes blazing at the memories that are called to mind by the statement.

"You know what?" I say, striding forward until I'm inches from Algernon. She doesn't flinch or reach for her sidearm, but a small bead of sweat gathers at her brow, and it makes me smirk. " _Fine_. We'll be outlaws. You think we're unworthy of doing our job? Right back at you. The fact is, we're never going to back down, and you have no right to hold us prisoner. Let us go, and let's just agree to stay out of each others' way, okay?"

I have a strong feeling the request will be considered ludicrous that's quickly confirmed as a bunch of armed guards step up and grab onto us tightly.

"In a word," Algernon replies, "No." She nods, indicating for sure that the guards are to haul us off to some awful dark cell in the ship, never to be seen again. Probably to have our minds tampered with by their god-awful technology and who knows what else. It's got me thinking "no" pretty vehemently myself.

I stomp on my guard's foot with all my might, enjoying the sound of his loud shriek of surprised pain, right before I elbow him and strike him to the ground with my boot. The Time Masters have taken my batons and Mick's heat gun, but they must not have realized the power or meaning of Amaya's necklace. Or so I think.

Until Amaya touches the necklace and instead of going all glowy-eyed right before she kicks some serious ass, nothing happens. A deeply gifted fighter even without her powers, Amaya lunges at the nearest guard and joins us in trying our best to overcome impossible odds. But that's the thing about impossible odds…

Jax and Martin try to merge with equal failure, and as we fight on, we exchange panicked looks of total confusion.

There's just too damn many Time Master minions, and before I can even fully register our shattering defeat, ice-cold cuffs are being slapped tightly on my wrists and the Legends are all ushered directly to said awful, dark cell.

"Why didn't my necklace work?" Amaya asks from the cell she's been tossed into along with Jax.

"Or our Firestorm powers," Martin puts in, shaking his head with the disappointment we all feel. He strokes his jaw, injured in the fight, while I roll my head around my shoulders, suffering from the worst stiff neck _ever_ , not to mention what feels like at least a mild sprain in my ankle.

Jax winces, touching a painful looking bruise on his cheek before adding, "It's like they've got some kind of power-inhibiting technology on this ship. Didn't think there was any such thing."

"Well, whoever these new Time Masters are," Rip announces from the corner of our cell where he's sunken to the floor, "From what we've seen so far, they possess technology far beyond anything I could have imagined."

"For that matter, so does DeBoer," I remark, "How the hell did he break away from that tractor beam?"

"Unfortunately for everyone involved, Reg is also an engineering genius," Rip explains resentfully.

"Great," Mick glowers, "Now how are we gonna get outta here? If I'm trapped in this cell with the Professor for too long, I'm bound to snap."

"Yes, let's hurry up our escape plan, shall we?" Martin asks nervously.

"Mick, you're not helping," I chide, then turn to Rip. I drop to my knees in front of him in concern as the others talk amongst themselves about possible plans of action. Rip sees the way I carefully slide my ankle to one side and reaches out to gently examine the wounded foot.

"I'm fine," I assure him dismissively. "Rip, I know how this must feel for you," I murmur, resting my hand on his cheek as his eyes, filled with grief and rage, sear into me.

"I gave everything I had to stop them after they destroyed my life, after they worked with _Savage_ , after their power-lust, greed, and violence shredded every concept of happiness I'd ever grasped, however briefly." Rip swallows hard and adds, "And like some fucking virulent disease, they're _back_. I don't know how. I don't know who this Ruth Algernon woman is or how she rose to power, how they reestablished themselves so quickly. I only know one thing."

"What?"

"That this time, when I end the Time Masters, there will be no resurgence for them. Somehow, I've got to make sure of it." We're all hurting from the revelation that our old foes are back, but seeing Rip in such pain and knowing too well the horrors he's endured is more than I can stomach. I want to scream and hug him and use sheer force of will to disintegrate this cell and gain our freedom before crushing the Time Masters' every resource and plot.

I hate that this is happening to us right as we were about to actually enjoy the fact that we'd finally confessed our feelings, that finally we could _be together_. Then I gather up my courage and resolve that we'll get through this fight no matter what it took, not just because the timeline and all of the universe deserve guardians and not opportunistic tamperers, not just because it's the right thing to do. But also because we deserve to be happy.

"Rip, we're going to beat them," I say boldly, and his gaze glides up to meet my eyes with a look so intensely passionate that it floors me. "Wherever the Time Masters go, whatever crimes they commit under _whatever_ pretense they're working under now, we will find them, we will stop them, and we _will_ put an end to it. Together."

"Oh, I know that," Rip says, only the tear that slides down his cheek and the waver in his voice revealing the vulnerability beneath his drily humorous attitude. "It just sounds so much better when you say it. You know, I was doing a perfectly fine job habitually slipping into hopeless dejection with each new catastrophic set-back, until you came along and messed it up."

I laugh. "I know what you mean."

I lean in and kiss him, the feeling incredibly warm, an intimate place of solace as I taste the salt of his tears and dream of a day when he won't have his agonizing past revisited on him with me so unable to stop the onslaught of suffering in any other way but just to love him. Yet even as I process the thought, I know that loving him is enough.

The other Legends were too wrapped up in their own conversations and typical bickering to notice our embrace, but then a slow clap sounds behind us that makes me and Rip break apart.

"Well, well, well," Reginald DeBoer states as he's pulled violently into the brig area by a guard, slightly out of breath but _never_ out of quips. "What a beautiful moment for you two. How sweet, how touching!"

"Reg," Rip says in surprise, walking over to watch as his frenemy is dragged by and tossed roughly into his own cell. "We thought you'd escaped. You know, after selling us all out to the Time Masters and taking off with your kidnapped victims," he adds accusingly.

" _Ow_!" DeBoer calls after the guard, rising from where he'd slammed into the floor, massaging his butt and complaining, "Let's not damage one of my finest features, shall we?"

" _Reg_ ," Rip insists, "Explain yourself."

DeBoer sighs deeply, as if exhausted, and throws his hands up in defeat. "Fine, you've loosened my tongue. I thought I was home free but there's a second one of these wretchedly decorated Time Master vessels out there too, and they caught me. Worse still, they've got some crazy new time scattering technology that actually allowed them to return each of my friends to their so-called 'correct place' in the timeline. Poor dears, they'll all be dead soon enough, their full genius scarcely realized."

"Just to be clear," Jax says drily, "The Time Masters' technology is the only part of this thing that sounds crazy to you?"

DeBoer ignores him and presses on with his "sad" tale. "It's targeted time scattering, able to return multiple people to any place in time they see fit. Damned bossy, aggressive sons of bitches. Who are they to appoint themselves the Powers that Be again? It was so much fun without them."

"Well, we wouldn't even have to deal with them right now if you hadn't called them here," I accuse, increasingly irritated.

"You would have found out about them eventually, and there's no question that getting our old chum Rip here is in the top ten items on their Evil Wish List. I'm up there too, you know. They're actually having a really good day today." DeBoer sighs again.

There's a slight silence before Mick asks, "Can I kill him as soon as I can reach him?"

"No," I retort before adding, "Okay, Sir Reginald DeBoer, genius, master of manipulation and surprise. Get us all out of here."

DeBoer snorts, dusting off his jacket and smoothing out the wrinkles in his formerly pristine white shirt. "Let's say I could get myself out of here. Why the bloody hell would I help you, knowing you lot probably want to toss me into a cell yourselves?"

"What if we give you a chance to turn over a new leaf?" I propose. The other Legends' eyes go wide, all except Rip, who immediately sees the inevitability of the suggestion. "One more opportunity to play nice out there and stop stealing human beings? A fair deal, if you ask me."

"Why should I believe you?" DeBoer asks suspiciously, but then after a pause he resumes, "Of course, why should any of us believe the other at any point?" He sighs resignedly. " _Ughh_ …alright, I guess I'd rather take my odds with you Legends than those Time Bastards. At least you're entertaining. In a _non_ -horror-movie way. Right, so I do have this," He slides a tiny piece of tech from the sleeve of his shirt and smiles smugly at his own sneakiness.

"You have to _really_ search me, if you know what I mean. And if any of you ever want to find out, let me know. You are _definitely_ the most attractive team I've ever seen, and I honestly wouldn't even know where to start." He lets his finger wander around pointing at each of in turn.

I roll my eyes and ask, "What is that thing?"

"Oh this thing? It only deactivates the device that's inhibiting your superpowers, Firestorm and Vixen. So, voila!" He presses a few minuscule buttons, and immediately Martin and Jax merge, pressing fiery hands against the forcefield, which gives way and deactivates.

"You had that the whole time?" I step forward once my cell is open and glare at DeBoer before punching him in the arm.

"Hey!" DeBoer exclaims, jumping back. "Hell of a way to say thank you, White Canary. That's going to leave a mark."

"She's letting you off easy," Mick growls as we creep slowly to the brig's exit.

And I do mean slowly, with me leaning against Rip, trying not to put weight on my foot.

"If we can get to the control room, we can find out exactly what our coordinates are and get the Wave Rider to come and pick us up," Rip whispers.

"This way," DeBoer nods, leading us to a room filled with blinking consoles, an eerie A.I. face suspended above it. Looks like an evil version of Gideon.

"You are escaped prisoners, and I will report you at once," the A.I. snaps at us imperiously, but Rip shakes his head.

"No, we're not," he says smoothly, pressing a few buttons until her judgmental scowl becomes an appeasing smile. He's too damn cute with this Jedi mind trick routine.

"Welcome, General Algernon," she greets Rip. "How may I assist you?"

"I'd like our coordinates, please," Rip requests. "Luckily, the Time Masters haven't changed all that much when it comes to the design of these ships," he explains to us. "I'm willing to bet this is just a heavily refurbished vessel from the previous fleet. It has its share of new tricks, yes, but plenty of old Achilles heels."

Once we have the coordinates of where the Chronos split to after Algernon snatched us off the Paradise, we shadily use their comms to contact Ray and Nate. Soon after, the cloaked Wave Rider has us aboard, and we're jumping to a random spot in time which will hopefully give us time to get our breath back and strategize what to do next.

After the time jump, Rip helps me out of my chair on the bridge and over to the med lab. "You know, I _could_ just carry you, my lady," he murmurs. I grin. _What pain?_

"You don't have to say it so _theoretically_ ," I reply, quirking an eyebrow. "How much do you think I weigh, anyway?"

"That's it!" Rip declares, scooping me up in his arms and carrying me to the lab while I bury my giggling face in his shoulder, not-so-secretly loving this experience.

He sets me down tenderly on a bed in the lab, making sure my back is firmly supported before he sits next to me and says, "So."

I relax into our togetherness for the first time since we went aboard the Paradise, a borderline-silly smile still plastered to my face as I reply, "So."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: My beating heart held in your hands**

 ***Rip***

"Gideon," I say quietly, my eyes never leaving Sara's searching gaze. She's absolutely glowing despite her discomfort. "Captain Lance has suffered an injury to her foot, and her neck is also in pain. Can you please assist?"

"I'd be happy to, sir," Gideon replies warmly. "Captain Lance, you have a fracture in your foot which I will repair for you shortly. As for your neck, I will apply some heat therapy for you if you'd please place the required apparatus."

I slide the warming pad under Sara's neck as she lies down and nestles into it, sighing with relief as the soothing heat seeps into her sore flesh.

"Gideon, you're a goddess," Sara says gratefully.

"Don't be so quick to thank me," Gideon answers apologetically. "I will now instruct Captain Hunter on how to heal your ankle, which will result in some brief discomfort."

I pick up the piece of medical tech which Gideon indicates and point it at Sara's foot. "I'm sorry I have to do this," I tell her, squeezing her hand first.

"Don't worry about it," she reassures me, flinching only slightly as the injury is repaired. Then, at last, she can relax.

"Come here," Sara murmurs, and I feel I've been waiting my whole life to hear her say those words.

I pull a second bed over next to hers, sliding the rail down out of the way and climbing on top of it so that I can put my head on a pillow directly beside her smiling face. "Just rest," I whisper, running my fingers first over her flushed cheek and then the beautiful, tangled tendrils of blonde hair that have slightly matted to her forehead. I kiss her forehead and her eyelids flutter back down, her breathing slow and even, contented.

"Just rest," I repeat, a feeling of satisfied peace coming over me such as I haven't known in many years. I pull a blanket over us and snuggle close to Sara, my arm resting lightly over her waist. "Gideon," I murmur sluggishly, feeling almost drunken with the sensation of blissful sleepiness that descends upon me as I nuzzle closer to her shoulder, the pillow infused with the heat from the healing apparatus.

"Say no more, Sir," Gideon replies, and I hear the "wink" in her voice that makes me smile as I drift further towards unconsciousness. The lights go out and we're enveloped in nothing but good dreams.

 ***Sara***

"Good… _morning_!" Ray's chipper voice greets us the next morning as the hideously bright lights in the med lab go flickering back on and I groan.

"Ugh," I complain, sitting up and touching my neck. The pain is gone, and I shift my ankle back and forth to find that my foot feels healed as well. Living on a spaceship has quite a few fringe benefits.

"Sorry," Ray says meekly, totally failing at suppressing an approving grin at the sight of Rip and me.

"Dr. Palmer," Rip sighs, climbing off of the cot, "Please redeem yourself by saying you've brought coffee."

"Not so much," Ray replies sheepishly, holding up empty hands. "Just came in to let you guys know the latest on the Time Masters. Some of us spent the night grilling your old pal Reg, and boy, does that guy know a lot of galactic gossip!"

" _Reg_?" I repeat warily. "Ray, please tell me you're not getting a man crush on DeBoer."

Ray shrugs. "Okay, maybe a little tiny one, but that doesn't mean I excuse any of his actions. But did you hear about what he did to the warp core of his ship? Or how he outsmarted the Time Masters' tractor beam? Wow. And if I'm saying that, from a scientific standpoint, that's really saying—"

"The update, Dr. Palmer?" Rip asks impatiently.

"Oh. Yup! Well, as it turns out, this new iteration of Time Masters have actually been true to their motto of purely protecting the timeline, so far. Reg knows quite a bit about that Chrysalis device of theirs, too."

I cross my arms and feel my brow start to furrow way earlier in the day than I would have preferred. "Do tell."

"It's basically Oculus 2.0," Ray fills us in, "it performs the same function of showing the so-called true timeline, which these Time Masters believe in with religious-level fervor. The husk surrounding the inner device was designed to be impervious to all attempts to break into it by anyone not committed to the cause. In fact, supposedly the Chrysalis can actually detect whether or not the person holding it is a believer. And of course, while we just look out for signs of potential or actual aberrations and swoop in for damage control, the Time Masters are more militantly controlling matters. From what Reg says, they put the smack down on anyone who even seems to be _contemplating_ an aberration-causing move, and especially anything that would interfere with the version of the future wherein the Time Masters come into power and call the shots on what everyone is allowed to do across galaxies."

"So they're stalking the universe and protecting their own power at all costs," Rip summarizes, frustrated. "Sounds awfully familiar to me."

"Our goal moving forward has to be to find some way to limit their absolute power, make them beholden to some kind of moral structure," I state matter-of-factly. "We can't let them get away with reestablishing their despot police state in the future, not without some kind of red tape."

"This will be a new tact for the Legends," Rip observes ironically, "Usually we're the ones climbing _out_ of tangles of red tape."

"Well, there's never a bad time to make a new beginning," I wink, knowing he senses my double meaning involving us. Ray looks back and forth between us and smiles again but makes no comment.

"We still have to finish up with your old pal DeBoer," I remind Rip as we head off to our respective quarters to freshen up before resuming our frenemy's interrogation.

"I know," Rip replies, kissing my cheek, the light and sweet sensation giving me an immediate buzz. "I'll see you in there."

When we enter the brig, DeBoer is looking pretty glum. He's sitting on the floor in his white shirt and dark green trousers, a bit of stubble on his face, his fingers impatiently drumming beside him. He looks up and sees us, then crosses his arms and levels us with an accusing glare.

"Hello there, Time Canary," DeBoer snipes with sarcastic glee, "To what do I owe the honor? Here to make me some more promises you don't intend to keep?"

" _Time Canary_?" I repeat, raising my eyebrows. Then I get the reference and chortle. This guy's got a nickname for everyone and everything. I smile slyly at Rip and resume, "We do plan to release you, DeBoer; we always intended to keep to our deal, but we also needed information from you first. That's been squared away, and we're grateful."

"Now all that remains are a few assurances from you, and you can be on your way," Rip adds, slipping his hands into his pockets as he strides back and forth, his tone cautiously cordial, underpinned with a silent warning.

"Well, alright then, my dears," DeBoer replies, standing up and placing a hand on his heart, raising the other hand upward with a ridiculous, faux-angelic expression. "I promise that never again will I ever kidnap anyone, and I will most certainly never use underhanded means to gain a new object for my admittedly luscious and deeply admirable collection." We gawk at him in clear disbelief, so he adds, "Scout's honor, really. From now on, I'm just the universe's most unbelievably handsome, brilliant, and charming explorer, engineer, and antiquer."

"If you decide that you like storing history's brilliant minds in that creepy ship of yours a little better than doing the right thing, you can be sure we will find out, we will find _you_ , and next time, we aren't going to cut you any deals. This brig will be your new home," I declare.

"Fine, fine," DeBoer agrees, rolling his eyes. "You don't have to say it like that, as if I'm keeping their brains in jars on my mantel. God, like I don't have enough problems with people thinking I'm insane just because I have unique proclivities — inclinations which would have benefited many others, I should hardly need to add. I promise to abide by our deal. However."

"What?" I demand suspiciously.

"I just have a funny feeling that you Legends are going to come looking for me sooner than you think. And it won't be because you caught me swiping Christopher Marlowe for a little jaunt across the stars. No, it'll be because you need my help. Despite everything, I find I'm quite looking forward to that day. My last promise to you is that when that happens, I _will_ smirk. A lot." DeBoer slings his jacket over his shoulder as we lower the force field keeping him in the cell and he steps out of confinement.

"I actually have one more question," I can't help saying. Something's been bugging me since we got back from the Chronos. "Why did you just happen to have a device on you that could shut off that superpower-inhibiting system on the Time Masters' ship?"

"Oh, that. I'd have thought you realized that I invented that suppressive technology. Countless uses for that, you know. A very cool item in one's arsenal. But I'll tell you what, sugar plum. Never ever put a poison out there in the universe unless you're going to carry the antidote up your sleeve wherever you go. You never know when _that_ will come in handy either."

"Just how many _antidotes_ are you carrying around?" I wonder aloud and earn myself one of DeBoer's trademark smirks before he touches his finger to the side of his nose and makes his exit.

"Interesting friend you made back in the day," I say to Rip, stepping close to him automatically, pulled magnetically into his orbit with blissful ease. His fingers land on my waist as he grins.

"What can I say? I seem to have a natural inclination for befriending the quirky and untraditional." His blue eyes sparkle with humor and affection for me, mixed with intrigue at what may happen next between us.

"Lucky for us," I answer, feeling the heat in my cheeks as the chemistry between us sizzles palpably.

"No, I'm the lucky one, Sara," Rip corrects me.

I take his hand and nod to the door. "Well, are you coming?"

When we get to my quarters, we crash into each other as soon as the door slides shut, my back against the wall as Rip's passionate kiss threatens to make me weak in the knees.

And anyone who's met me knows that isn't easy to do.

The moment is incredibly surreal, like we both can't believe it's true — that we admitted our feelings, that we both love and want each other so badly and it's actually all coming together. Once, it seemed as if the chances of that were a little worse than one in a million.

"Tell me what you want," Rip murmurs sexily in my ear, his lips trailing from there down to my neck. "I want to know everything you like. So that I can give it to you."

"Wanna know what I like?" I answer, pulling back to look into his eyes as I finger the collar of his coat. "What I want?" His gaze is inquisitive. "I like _you_. I like _this_." I slowly slide the coat from his shoulders, then turn my attentions to his dark blue t-shirt, the one that brings out the color of his eyes so magnificently. "And I like this," I continue, pulling his shirt off, carefully letting my fingers graze over his bare stomach and chest as I go. He sucks in his breath and shoots me a look that tells me my attentions are much appreciated. I let the shirt fall to the floor like the coat before it and slide my fingers down the sides of his torso until they land at his belt.

"I think my kink is _you_ ," I explain shamelessly, removing his pants and letting him stand there far more exposed than I am, his answering grin all too delicious to me.

"I've got the craziest coincidence to tell you about," Rip replies, that exquisite accent always more than I can really handle. My eyes rake over his lean, gorgeous body with barely-contained desire.

"Is that so?" I answer, and he steps forward, his fingers roaming beneath my black t-shirt, stroking my back as he guides the shirt upward. I raise my arms as he pulls the sheer long sleeves gradually over my arms and hands, drawing out the process in sweet revenge for my similar treatment of him, taking the time to run his fingers over every inch of flesh he's bared.

"Yes, it is," Rip resumes, kissing first my upper chest, then the space between my breasts, before his lips wander to the waist of my black pants, which he removes so that we're both standing here, clad in our underwear, eye-screwing the hell out of each other. The delectably playfulness of the moment is underlaid with the tense feeling of longing that means this game of tentativeness can't go on much longer.

We move forward at the same time, enveloping each other in arms that are almost frantic. His body is hot and hard against me as I kiss his mouth, pressing against him so that I can feel how aroused he is. Once I do, it takes my breath away.

"You're all I want, Sara," Rip tells me, his voice ragged. Instinct seems to propel us backwards towards my bed, but the progress is slow-going and fumbling, since we can't stop kissing and touching each other long enough to look where we're going. Every moment of feeling his mouth on my skin, every new sensation as I explore him with my hungry caress, just gets better and better.

By the time we basically trip over onto the bed, I can't help but to pull his hands down to my panties, desperate to progress further and deeper. He shakes his head and instead unclasps my bra, placing it lovingly to one side. With the slightest graze of Rip's fingers against my hardened nipples, a jolt of torturous pleasure hits me, radiating right through my core until I bite my lip and thrust my hips up slightly. He grins at my reaction and hooks two fingers into the back of my black hipster panties, cupping my backside and then finally pulling the underwear off altogether.

"Stop teasing me," I plead somewhat hypocritically. I think he can tell that I like it quite a bit given my breathless moaning and bucking against him, especially when he takes one of my nipples between his lips, then moves to the other, gently nibbling and then sucking, his fingers teasing my entrance at a far-too-leisurely rate before he slips one, then two inside.

An urge towards sweet vengeance gives me the strength to push him slightly away from me, just so I can get him underneath me and pay him back for his onslaught of slow tempting. I pepper his chest with kisses before running my tongue down the length of his torso, causing Rip to shiver, the aching bulge in his boxer briefs straining for release. Now it's my turn to give a smile of satisfied power, thoroughly enjoying his clearly begging groan as I kiss my way down his length through his underwear. I think he's suffered enough, so I remove said undergarment and provide some further attention to the area, his fingers raking through my hair, his breathing urgent and fast, until I'm sure we've both waited far too long to take this all the way.

The salty sweetness of his rock-solid flesh under my tongue has pushed me so far past the brink that I'm hasty to feel more of him, to give him more pleasure as his strong hands wrap around my waist before dropping to my hips. I sit up and then sink down on his arousal, my eyes squeezing shut as my mouth drops open, the immediate shock of erotic sensation taking me over. Rip's fingers tighten at my hips as I start to move, both of us relishing the feeling brought on by my gradual, then quickening rocking against him.

Rip fluidly moves us so that I'm beneath him as our fingers intertwine, grinding into the mattress as he thrusts into me deeply, the new angle presenting freshly exquisite waves of pleasure. I don't think I can take another minute without dissolving into orgasm, and it hits me with such intensity that I cry out, clutching his shoulders as he moans and finds his own release.

For some reason, instead of collapsing back onto the mattress for a rest and post-coital chat like any sane people would, we hesitate momentarily, sweat threading our hair and beading our foreheads, breaths coming heavy and hearts pounding, our eyes meeting with a gaze just as bold as anything that just happened. Then our lips collide again, hunger for each other eclipsing acknowledgement of exhaustion, our tongues tangling shamelessly before I bite down slightly on his bottom lip, causing him to retaliate my sucking on mine. I look down at his body in surprise. "Really?" Nothing wrong with his stamina.

Rip raises his eyebrows and grins. "Really."

The second time is much slower, and by the time we're done, I don't think I could move a muscle, I mean not even if I saw a bottle of good whiskey and a big slice of chocolate cake across the room. "Damn," I murmur, lying back across his arm that's strewn helplessly across the bad. Rip looks over at me and nods.

"That's a good way to put it," he agrees. "I'm feeling somewhat regretful that we're ever going to be obligated to do anything else but that. Or this," he adds quietly, pulling me into his arms as we slide easily into a spooning position. The comfort and solace of the moment, with my spent, tingling limbs adding to the feeling of dual excitement and relaxation, is perfect.

"I probably shouldn't even say this out loud, but I can't believe we're actually allowed to have this," I admit. "Happiness hasn't exactly been the norm."

"It's not even in my nature to accept happiness as anything that could possibly last," Rip replies. He kisses my shoulder. "But Sara, do you think perhaps this time…we should believe it's possible?"

I laugh, but more from disbelief at my own emotional journey and where I've ended up than any glimmer of amusement. "Yeah. I think I already believe it's possible. This might sound crazy, but I know it is."

"I think you're absolutely right, Captain," Rip answers me, smiling against my skin as we nestle closer. "But then again, you usually are."


End file.
